


Time Enough

by NervousAsexual



Category: Thief (Video Game Original Series), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Spiders, Whump, spoilers for Into the Maw of Chaos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 02:46:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: The trickster appreciates the ways in which the thief has has been useful, both intentionally and not. There is time enough in the Maw to act on that appreciation.





	Time Enough

There is time enough in the maw.  
  
As the beasts enter his portal one at a time the trickster lovingly tends his summoning ground. The eye watches. It waits.  
  
There is time enough, and there are minions enough. Only one from the outside enters the portal. He does not draw his blade.  
  
No one is alerted to him. The beasts that walk on two legs sound no alarm. They march their way into the world of stone  as if nothing has happened, and to their knowledge nothing has.  
  
Time does not pass in the maw. The trickster holds the eye in his hands, flesh and stone made one at last, a bridge that will span a great river. How his children will enjoy the feast of blood laid before them! Though the trickster does not seek the approval of those who walk on two legs, he is pleased nonetheless.  
  
Scarce attention has he paid to the misfits, the frog, the burrick, the elemental. More's the pity, for they prove the hardest to trick.  
  
It is the spiders who are the thief's undoing. The trickster comes to the tree to find him bound and struggling and encircled with spiders. When he sees the trickster approach he opens his mouth to speak but can only gag and moan as the thick webbing fills his mouth. His eyes still uncovered, he is reduced to glaring up at the hoofed liar.  
  
"My poor, poor thief," the trickster says. He extends a hand and the thief flinches, his good eye glancing away. At this the trickster laughs but does not cede. Instead he runs a thick, coarse-haired hand along the webbing that constricts the thief's face. "And to think I made it so simple for you!"  
  
The thief struggles. Some small amount of webbing gives but is immediately replenished by a lovely green spiderbeast.  
  
"I left you my sword." The trickster touches the shape of the sword, barely palpable beneath the webbing. "I let you live. I might as well have handed you to the keepers. Yet here you are." As easily as tearing paper the trickster rips clumps of webbing aside to get to his gift.  
  
Beneath the weight of his bindings the thief strains to grab the sword. For one brief moment his fingers brush the hilt, enough to give anyone hope, and then the trickster takes it from him. His trembling fingers stretch desperately into the void. He gives a muffled sob.  
  
"Hush." In a mockery of comfort the trickster squeezes the thief's hand in his own. He chuckles. "You're sweating, my thief."  
  
He presses the thief's hand to his thigh and holds it there as his other hand strokes around the empty eye socket, still fresh with blood and tears. Upon closer inspection this is not his only wound. The flesh along his face is raw with ice-burn. The trickster lets up on his hand--there are burns there too. He has learned a painful lesson in the ice fields. "Your allies could not be bothered to send a healing potion? Such faith they have in you!"  
  
The trickster nods his thanks and his orders to the spiderbeast beside him. Without a moment's hesitation the spider sinks its fangs into the thief's arm.  
  
The thief grunts in surprise or pain. He struggles to turn his head, to see what has been done to him.  
  
"I gave you every opportunity, and this is the thanks I get." The trickster shakes his head in disappointment. "I expected more from you, sneaksie one."  
  
The thief writhes. The spider's venom flows freely through his veins.  
  
"But never mind. I still have one last gift for you." The trickster leans in close and the thief winces. "If you are so desparate to see the portal open, I will certainly cooperate."  
  
The body of the thief trembles and droops. Oh, but he tries to resist. How... quaint.  
  
"Do you know what amuses me most? You think yourself immune. You believe in nothing, but you've turned that into a belief of its own. You are not different. You are the same as every other manfool."  
  
The thief stares straight ahead, as if he can will this moment out of existence. Or, perhaps, he's thinking of what the trickster is saying. Deep in his throat something rattles. He is struggling to breathe through his nose.  
  
The maw is nothing but time, and the trickster waits. He waits as the thief succumbs to the venom. When it is over, when the thief's remaining eye has closed and his body is still, he lifts the webbed figure in his arms like a child and carries him to the summoning ground.  
  
The thief has clearly put up an admirable fight. His hands are scarred with burns from the ice, and his quiver is all but empty. He's been reduced to three broadhead and a moss arrow. He has come farther than anyone else could have, and yet it is still a disappointment.  
  
Time passes beyond the portal. Here the thief does not even dream.  
  
The trickster tears the moss crystal from its arrow and lets it spread across the summoning ground. It will back a lovely soft place for the thief to lie as he watches the chaos he has helped to create unfold. He lowers the thief onto the moss and runs the blade down the front of his bindings. In its master's hand it cuts through the webs as if through a handful of sand.  
  
He turns the thief onto his stomach and cuts another layer of the webbing before attending again to his flesh-stone eye.  
  
Outside the portal the war is waged. Inside, the thief begins to stir.  
  
He shivers as the vemon wears off, the burns on his hands blistering, his missing eye weeping pus and blood. He surfaces slowly, each breath carrying him closer to the trickster's world. He stirs and at last a whimper slips from his throat. One hand, shaking, paws at the webbing still strung across his face. The trickster comes to him and runs the blade of the sword across his cheek. The webs give.  
  
Blood, dark and beautiful, blooms along the thief's cheek, but the webbing falls loose. The thief retches and gags, his body heaving, as he claws out room to breathe and speak. Yet he doesn't speak; his strength gives out and he slumps down on the moss. The face he turns to the trickster is weary and pained.  
  
"Ah, Garrett, my thiefsie fool. Lives you still?" the trickster asks. He is glad. The thief has proven more amusing than troublesome. How seriously he takes all this, and how easy he has been to manipulate. A manfool's pride is always there for the twisting. All that would make him a better plaything would be anger, or hatred, or fear. Any emotion at all would have been pleasant. "Do you suppose the Hammers have realized your failure yet?"  
  
The thief still says nothing. The trickster can only imagine the dull ache the venom has left in him. He's been through trauma and fought his way to the other side before--escaping from the trickster's mansion with his eye freshly torn from his face is clearly not the first time he's had to work in desparate times--but the venom has left him weak and exhausted, and that is something the thief cannot hide from. He tries to raise himself up but the arm the spider has bitten folds beneath him and he falls again. The weight of the shredded webbing is on him, and the weight of his pain, and the weight of the world of stone.  
  
The trickster shows him the eye of stone so that he may see his own part in this. The thief's remaining eye closes and he tries to turn away, but the trickster closes a hand around his throat as easily as cradling a flower and holds his head in place. The thief's body shakes only momentarily. The venom has stolen even the strength to feel the full force of his fear.  
  
Casting the thief aside the trickster carries the eye of stone to its rightful altar, and it watches as he walks the star inscribed into the summoning ground. He marks the compass Borning, the compass Leaf, the Stormsie compass, the Flamsie compass, the compass Tidestream, the compass Stone, the compass Darkness. The thief lies, his cheek resting against the moss.  
  
The trickster speaks.  
  
 _Vine, grow and twine! Green and curl, chokes and bind! Leaves unfurl, thornsie spine, tumble wall! Wreath in vine, cover all! Leafsies mine, call the vine, call the green: bringsie forth world be seen!_

A glance at the moss shows the glassy-eyed thief, too weak to rise up, too proud to despair. He curls on his stomach and watches.

_Storm, black and blow! Swirly gust, rain winds flow! Pushing dust, storm clouds grow! Darksie clouds, lightning throw! Misty shrouds, freezie snow! Call the storm, call the grey: bringsie forth world's old way!_

Beneath the trickster's hands the compasses glow, one after another after another. He will open the way. The maw will encompass all.

_Flame, burning heat! Fences charred, blazey sheet! Black and tar, manflesh meat! Melting gears, dance and leap! Manfool's fear, come to reap! Call the fire, call the red: bringsie forth past not dead!_

The creatures that walk on two legs will be pleased, but what of it? The trickster does not act according to their fancy. It is the others, the manfools, whose reaction he desires. He is ready to see their fear and feed upon it.

_Tide, rise and fall! River flood, rain and squall! Churny mud, dam break all! Sea waes wash, swampy squall! Sewer slosh, drainpipes stall! Call the wave, call the blue: bringsie forth world anew!_

Soon. Ah, soon. It will all be worthwhile.

_Stone, grind and quake! Shatter tile, columns shake! Brick unpile, chip and flake! Darkie soil, windows break! Earthie toil, wall unmake! Call earth, call the brown: bringsie back world thrown down!_

One last time the trickster crosses the summoning grounds to the final compass. His eyes catch on the moss--the thief has managed to move onto his side. There he lies, unable to move farther, barely able to give the energy to keep himself in such a position. "Watch, my thief," the trickster tells him. "Your part is done. Now watch!"

_Night, smother light! Black break lamp, done with bright! Dew and damp, smother tight! Dark in hide, foolsie sight! Stay inside, fear the night! Call the dark, call the black: bringsie forth! I call it back!"_

"Open for me!" he cries to the eye of stone. "Open to me! Open my way! Open the path! Open for me!"

He looks to the thief. His face is contorted in pain--no, not in pain. His gaze locks with the trickster's, and on his face is a bitter smirk. The trickster growls. This is not the reaction he has imagined.

"What is it you have to smile about, fleshthing?" he demands. He cups his hands around the stone eye's altar.

The thief raises one hand, heavy with weakness but lighter than it seemed, and draws from his cloak an eye, the perfect twin of the one atop the altar.

"Nothing," the thief says wearily. "Not a damn thing."

The trickster's gaze falters, falls to the altar. The eye looks back. It is blind. It is mute.

"It betrays me," the trickster whispers, and the eye unfurls into a fireball of magic.

The thief watches quietly as the trickster is torn limb from limb, the explosion echoing back into silence, and this time he has nothing left to hide. He lets himself roll onto his back. The hand that holds the eye drops against his chest.

"I'm done with heroics," he whispers to the silence that listens, and his body gives out.

Beyond the maw the Hammers fight the last of the trickster's creatures, and inside the thief doesn't even dream. It will take time to regain his strength. But inside the maw there is nothing but time.


End file.
